


And yet

by berlin_by_sea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, can't be bothered editing properly, here be smut, master/apprentice story, rough af, ss/hg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:50:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5254079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlin_by_sea/pseuds/berlin_by_sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, SS/HG. A Master/Apprentice story. Rating MA , very graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I thought up and wrote out pretty quickly and it's still a little rough, but I wanted to share it. It is inspired by the great apprenticeship fics this fandom has produced and also a little bit by the dynamics of 'My Fair Lady'/'Pygmalion'.
> 
> It's AU too and nothing too original. Read the story to find out more, but it's nothing crazy.
> 
> Also, I warn in the precis that it's graphic and I will make that warning again. Please don't read it if that sort of thing offends you or you're not of legal age.

She arrived on his doorstep like a Muggle in the gloom of night already fallen; bag in hand and meagre hope in her eyes. He stepped aside to let her in without a word. He would not crush her aspirations for a cause and a distraction, in spite of everything. Because of everything. He wasn't a hospitable man, so it was the least that he could offer her.

"Thank you for-"she started, but he cut her off with a gesture.

"It's a mutually beneficial arrangement that can be terminated as soon as it ceases to have any…reward," he drawled, giving her a hard look.

He led her to the entrance of her bedroom in the pokey attic of the house Dumbledore had left him, stopping at the bottom of the ladder-cum-stairs. He had refused to make this arrangement any more comfortable for her than it had to be and thus the attic, as she'd find when she ascended to survey it blankly, was basically furnished and approaching empty for its sparseness.

A whimsical notion of the beast having trapped a maiden in remote tower occurred to him as he settled into his wingchair in the parlour with the book he had abandoned to answer the door and he enjoyed it just long enough to find his page and resume the interrupted sentence. A large part of the reason he agreed to this farce was the guilty thought that he had been given this space as an afterthought and a precaution against an unlikely eventuality and therefore it wasn't rightfully his to exclude anyone from; especially the sole survivor of the Gryffindor Holy Trinity.

A smaller part was that honestly, he did crave some company from time to time and Granger seemed more bendable than most if he had to groom someone to be his basically competent assistant and occasional conversation partner. Her gratitude, what she showed of it through the stifling cloud of misery than emanated from her weary frame, was some compensation for the effort and getting Minerva off his back through his sacrifice was also reason enough.

He read, as was his habit, until sleep was sneaking in through the edges of his consciousness and he dragged himself back up the stairs and into the chamber at the end of the short corridor that also housed the attic ladder. It made sense to him to make his bedroom on this level of the house because hot air rises and the house had a habit of catching draughts from the moors and sending them echoing around eternally. But now that he'd put her above him without much thought about proximity and the unease it would make him feel to look at the roof and know she shared it, he considered relocating to one of the other perfectly serviceable bedrooms on the level below. One of the bedrooms he'd denied her, as the apprentice he'd never wanted and the secondary inmate of Moor House that he would tolerate under sufferance only.

Dumbledore had given the house to him, after all. Even if he hadn't meant him to ever live to occupy it, Snape defiantly told himself that had to matter.


	2. Chapter 2

After months of tip-toeing around him; meekly silent and sycophantically obliging, and frustratingly, never legitimately earning the ire he heaped on her regardless, Granger unwittingly pushed him too far.

He had taken to ensuring he was already downstairs well before she awoke, climbing the stairs only when she had retired and keeping away from the upper levels (where she hid away when she wasn't required in the laboratory, study or herb garden) at all other times and tonight, had thought he was safe to fold himself into the bath precisely one and a quarter hours after she had stuttered her usual goodnight and ascended as quietly as always. She burst through the door suddenly and startled him into sitting bolt upright in the claw-footed bath he'd relocated to the prime spot before the fireplace. A surprised gasp hung in the air as she stared at him, open-mouthed and red-cheeked, in her long, white nightgown. At about the time her shame had spurred her to breathe an apology and finally dash back out through the open door, he had noticed that the flickering candles lined up on the vanity behind her silhouetted a deliciously lithe figure under the yards of lawn and felt a stab of self-loathing at the sight he must present in the bath. With a curse, he near leapt out of the bath as soon as he heard her feet padding across the roof above him and towelled himself off roughly, hating her, hating himself and damning himself for wasting the opportunity to devastate her for her thoughtlessness.

The next day, she wouldn't look him in the eye and when her knife slipped from her shaky fingers and sliced her palm, he made up for lost time by flaying her verbally for her ineptitude and for wasting his time, his ingredients and his oxygen with her sham of an apprenticeship. When he had finally reduced her to freely flowing tears and, he thought, revenged himself enough for the previous night, he banished her from the lower level of the house for the rest of the day and effectively sentenced her to missing out on lunch and supper. It would serve her right, he thought, to miss her meals for her stupidity.

It didn't stop him from asking the house elf that came in to cook and clean every other day to send up a sandwich when he retreated to his study after dinner, damning himself all the while for being soft.


	3. Chapter 3

When the warmer weather, or what passed for it, came to Bleaklow, he tersely ordered her to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies from the apothecary and, as an afterthought, on a made-up errand to Hogwarts to borrow a book that didn't exist from Minerva.

As soon as he heard the whoosh of the Floo, he gave into an urge he'd battled for months and ran up the stairs -stopping only to tell himself that he had for when he knew he'd be hating himself for it later - before throwing himself up the attic ladder. When he finally stood there on the threshold, where he hadn't stood since he gave the space a cursory looking over the day before she came, he allowed himself to draw a deep breath. He detected aromatic traces of the sweet milk soap she used (and he had perversely taken to hunting down and snatching from the bathroom out of some childish need to inconvenience her) and the soft lavender and jasmine smell he could usually find in her wake when she walked near him.

The bed was made up with lace-trimmed sheets he certainly hadn't provided with the sparse accommodation and he crossed the room to look at them. The intricate pattern and style told him they were old and likely a cherished family heirloom. From when she'd had a family. He found the idea that she'd managed to hold on to antique bed linen through everything so overwhelming for a moment that he sat down heavily on the narrow little pallet so lovingly dressed with handmade lace and the rough, grey wool blankets he'd had the house elf leave. The floral scent was stronger here and he scooped up the pillow which he knew had to be the source. Underneath, a neatly folded little mound. Her nightgown. It was white again, with little lilac flowers. He shook it out and marvelled at how small it was, especially when he knew from That Night that she wore them baggy. The memory of her body outlined by the light of the candles was burned into his memory and he tried to remember if she'd seemed too thin. He would have to ask the house elf to put more on her plate, maybe make her cakes. He hadn't had any served under his roof, even before she was in residence, and maybe she would find it strange to have sweets included in the fairly boring standard menu of pies, stews, roasts and vegetables suddenly, but he couldn't let it be said that he starved his apprentice.

"By whom?" a snide inner voice asked and he cast the thought away.

On the chipped window frame, she'd set a fussy little crystal vase with a sprig of the heather that grew in the area. She asked him sometimes if she could go for a walk when she had finished her work and her reading early enough in the day for there still to be some light left and usually, he grunted an assent; happy to have her out of the house and his field of awareness. He folded the nightgown, shorter than the one he'd seen That Night and he refused to rifle through all the rest of her things to find out how many more she had. He had stepped over to the window to study the vase; holding it up to the light to watch the scant sunlight refract through the engraved panels, when he spied her walking over the rise with a laden basket and dropped the vessel abruptly. It shattered loudly on the hard wooden floor and he cursed his own idiocy. A basic spell didn't do anything to repair the damage and he wouldn't risk her catching him there, so he fled as silently as he could to his room and collapsed against the door.

After a while, he heard her come up the stairs and then came the creaking of the ladder as she climbed. Her footsteps traced the same path that he had to the bed and he heard the exact moment she stopped and saw her vase in pieces of the floor. His heart thundered painfully as waited for a sound, for her reaction and none came. After a while, she walked back to the bed and he thought she must have sat down. Then, she gasped and began to sob. Quietly, of course. Muffled.

He hated himself a million times over.

He knew he could never admit that he had been in there and that he would deny it scornfully if she ever asked and probably blame the house elf who would accept fault without question, but his guilt forced him to stay where he was and listen to her crying as punishment for his violation of her space and for giving in to his stupid, brainless need to visit the scene he imagined so often and so vividly.

"It has to stop," he whispered to himself.

He must send her away and the knowledge caused a jagged spike to cut through him.


	4. Chapter 4

If the curriculum had gotten noticeably more difficult all of a sudden, she never commented on it and he felt no concerns over making her already complex work more challenging. She could handle it and that'd what he had to establish irrevocably, mostly for her sake so she would see that she was working to a Master's level and pack her things and leave him. He did not know where she would go, but he knew she would leave as soon as he told her he had signed her certification papers and sent them off to be accredited. Since that wonderful, awful day when he had walked into her room and stroked the lace on her sheets and broken her crystal vase, she'd been even more silent than before and held herself stiffly, away from him yet still compliant.

She knew and it frustrated him. It more than frustrated him, it pained him. A dull, guilty ache when he looked at her, a sharp pang when he thought of how he'd abused his position by invading her space and a rush of he didn't know what when allowed himself to remember that he would have to watch her leave and that she would be especially glad to be rid of him: the horrible old bastard who treated her so badly and acted so inappropriately. He should have realised that she could never hold the house elf to blame and even worse, that she would bear the intrusion silently. None of the evil acts he'd committed before could have affected him so acutely and he wished he could tell her. Pride, his position of authority and his identity meant that it was completely impossible and it was almost too much to bear.

He'd taken to setting her work, checking when he absolutely had to and then going to hide in his study. He replayed every interaction in his mind endlessly and it made him twitchy and restless. She'd leave soon and then he'd have some peace. Two years she had been here, in his house and his mind. If only they'd been able to pass the last few months of her training without this tension. He regretted his intrusion into her personal space daily, hourly, minutely, but at the same time, he knew it would sustain him Later.


	5. Chapter 5

She sat back on heels to survey her work, wiping her hands on the apron she had Transfigured from a rag the house elf had shyly presented to her upon request. Behind her, he strode back and forth lecturing about preparation implements and stopped occasionally to chide her for missing a weed in the herb garden which she had ensured was thriving under her care. Closing her eyes, she let his voice wash over her and savoured his unique pronunciation and the way he seemed to savour certain syllables.

He had always been a good teacher and she had scarcely believed it when Minerva had told her that it had been arranged for her to stay with him in Moor House to undertake an apprenticeship. Minerva had been all motherly kindness after the war, but as hard as she tried, she had not been able to make up for the loss.

It had been almost unendurable to begin with: Harry gone, but only after serving his purpose and taking his nemesis with him. Ron gone too, cut down after stupidly and heroically single-handedly charging a group of Death Eaters circling his mother. Molly survived, but the size of her brood had been further decreased with the deaths of Percy and Fred after they'd failed to defend themselves against the onslaught when they'd been caught behind the enemy lines on a reconnaissance mission and so the Weasleys had closed ranks in their grief. That had left Hermione, who'd discovered that she'd been orphaned anyway despite her precaution of sending her parent away, alone and wandering. Minerva took her in and gave her a place at Hogwarts, but she hadn't been able to give her a purpose.

For all of the things that she'd seen and now knew, Hermione was still a Muggle at a heart and often she would find herself muttering the same phrase to herself and puzzling over it. Fit for purpose. A thing had to be fit for purpose to be able to be sold and held as good value, and Hermione felt that a person should be held to no lesser standard of quality. But what was her purpose? There'd been none before this and now that she had a reason for being, she was able to persevere without her parents and Ron and Harry.

And with Snape. He'd given her a purpose and he would likely never understand what that meant to her. It was accepted between them that he hadn't had to and he told her on a daily basis what a sore trial she was for him, but he had delivered her means of redemption and that meant everything. She had been prepared to offer him her complete subservience and respect in return and she had, even in spite of the way he raged at her and belittled her efforts when she knew that she was doing the best she could and it was textbook perfect. She had borne his cruelty and snubs and punishing standards and felt energized by it where before she had struggled to overcome her lethargy. It had all been going so well until the night that she had accidentally walked in on him in his bath and then she wasn't able to see him as her aloof and all-knowing Master any more.

It was something that she thought about constantly. The fact that she hadn't know that he used the same bathroom too because in the months that she'd lived there at that time, he'd left no traces of himself. The fact that he must, therefore, have a bedroom somewhere nearby and maybe even directly beneath her attic. The fact that he had lit scores of candles and stationed them around the bathroom to compliment the blazing fire, creating a beautiful golden glow that had made his wet skin glisten. The fact that he had just stared at her, shocked at her sudden intrusion, while she had stared at him transfixed and had been unable to look away. And the fact that she had wanted to climb into the bath with him and stroke the droplets that slid down the strands of his hair as he'd sat up and lick away the pool that had gathered in his collar bone and drag her teeth down his neck to make him gasp. The latter she thought about most of all and the thought had mutated to involve all sorts of other scenarios where she would have his full attention.

When she analysed her feelings for him, that's what it all boiled down to. She was his apprentice and thus entitled to his tutelage. But he often seemed so distracted and she wanted to scream and shout at him and make him actually look at her for more than the time it took to correct her form with a stirring rod. Make him look at her and tell her that he wanted her. Needed her.

He'd been in her bedroom, of that she was certain. She supposed it was his right, as the house was his and she had heard of many Masters searching their apprentices' personal belongings for contraband items. Not that she would ever have anything that would be considered contraband by a former Death Eater, of course. But he'd been in there for whatever reason and he'd broken the little bud vase that had been her mother's. The pile of fragments on the floor had been devastating and she had tried to put them back together so many times without so much as chip hovering in the air. She couldn't bear to throw it away for what the connection to her parents meant, as useless and unfit for purpose as the shattered crystal now was, so she had Transfigured a splinter from the bed frame into a box to house the broken pieces. He likely hadn't meant to do it, but it stung that he had neglected to even put the vase back together when she was sure he probably knew at least five spells that would do it without leaving so much as a crack.

"Miss Granger, kindly tend to your responsibilities," he barked, suddenly right above her. "I have no wish to watch you playing in the dirt when you have other work to do and I could be wasting my time on reading through your assignments instead."

She turned her focus back to clipping away browned fronds and expertly slicing diseased limbs from healthy roots. When she was finished, she left her boots by the kitchen door and the apron on the hook to wash her hands. As she scrubbed at the dirt under her fingernails and cuticles, she pictured him again in the bath and let the warmth that always followed spread through her. She looked up then to find him, still in the doorway, staring at her. His look was intense and dare she say…ardent…? Then, he turned and swept away without a word.

The warmth that pervaded her smouldered into genuine heat and she felt breathless at the impact of his gaze. More than the Masters certification, more than emotional numbness and a retreat from the memories and grief, she wanted his attention. She wanted him to look at her that way again and she wanted his hands on her and his body moving over hers and in hers. He showed her every minute of the day that she was nothing more than an irritation and annoyance he couldn't wait to be done with, but before he was done, she would have what she wanted. He was a man after all, as she knew too well for comfort, and for all her inexperience, she knew that even Severus Snape would have to be tempted by a willing woman. A wanting, wilful woman.


	6. Chapter 6

A timing spell anchored to his wand flashed warm and red then to remind him to check on her and he reluctantly got to his feet from his chair behind his desk in the study. He'd set her the task of developing her own brew based off a base of his design and a specified list of acceptable uses to challenge her improvisation skills and it was well past time to examine the results of the trial. He glided down the hall to the laboratory and stood in the doorway, watching her shoulders inevitably tense when she registered his presence.

"Well, Miss Granger?" he said, curious. She had more than proven her right to his tutelage, though he would never admit it, and he was always fascinated by and interested in her approach to potion making and the scientific theory of the field.

"I am working on a healing draught," she stated without emotion. Her tone stung, but her answer impressed him. It was the hardest option of the three he'd offered, with the base composed of volatile and poisonous ingredients many Masters even avoided experimenting with.

"Is it complete?" The prospect was exciting, in spite of everything.

"Nearly." Her self-assurance was refreshing, though her face was blank.

He drifted closer and finally, stood beside her and examined the cauldron. The evaporation glowed faintly as it rose gracefully into the air and the draught itself gleamed golden in the light of the candles charmed to hover without dripping onto the work bench. The aroma was mostly herbal from the additives she had made to stabilise the base, though there was a faint sharpness from the inclusions of mercury, rowan sap and a tincture made of a particular variety of toxic lily.

"What is left?" he asked, speculating internally about what else she would add. Leather shavings? Dried dragon blood? Diced liver pieces from a Cornish pixie?

He turned to her, awaiting her reply, and was unprepared for the sight of her unbuttoning the front placket of the prim and practical high-necked dress she wore and slipping her shoulders through the opening. She stepped out of the dress and folded it neatly on the bench.

He didn't understand what was happening and the slow burning of his body made it hard to think or breathe. He felt exhilarated and excited and anxious and he couldn't get any oxygen to his brain. Evidently it showed.

"The final ingredient," she said slowly as if to a child or a half wit, "is going to be a virgin's first blood. I need some help collecting it."

He felt himself blinking, unable to comprehend her words. In the back of his mind, he decided that virgin's blood would be a good choice for a healing draught, both for the restorative and neutralizing qualities of a blood gift freely given, but she couldn't possibly be suggesting that he-

"What?" he heard himself say dumbly.

"I need help to collect the final potion ingredient," she said. He could hear her shaky defiance and see the stiffness in her limbs. Was it fear?

Any and all feeling other than the swift surge of illness deserted him.

Why would she do this? She must hate him, after everything, and she now she asked the unthinkable.

Only for the potion, the little voice said.

"This is appalling," he heard himself say and he turned away from her. Thinking was easier without the sight of her reclining on his work bench in her underthings to distract him. He paced as he tried to process the situation. He set her the challenge, but he didn't expect it to end this way. Or want it to- no, that wasn't strictly true. He couldn't deny that he burned for her, even before he went through her things and saw where she slept, he fantasised about it. And about being able to touch her and see the body he could only imagine under the fine cotton nightgown. It was wrong for a man in his position, but he was only just a man and not enough of one to withstand the challenge posed by his apprentice.

And she wanted him to- no, she had asked him to help her harvest her final potion ingredient: her virgin blood. The fact that she hadn't- The fact that she was going to let him- No. Logically, he knew he was the only man for miles and therefore, if she wanted the blood, there was no easier way to get it, but-

But why? Yes, she cared about her potions and getting things right and even about being right, but surely she wouldn't have him deflower her on his work bench just for the sake of her sodding apprenticeship and academic curiosity.

He looked up, remembering that she was in the room only to find that she wasn't.

She'd taken her dress and left at some point and he hadn't even acknowledged it. He'd just mumbled some stupid remark and fallen apart and she'd quietly left him to it. He remembered then exactly what he'd said before he turned away and realised how badly it must have come across to the girl virtually offering herself to him in the name of science.

Cursing himself as the worst kind of idiot, he kicked the stool next to the bench viciously. What could he have said, even had the circumstances been better and the situation perfect? He could hardly tell her that he- what? That he longed to touch her and have her touch him? That he dreamed of having the right to sleep beside her and wake up and just look at her?

He adored her. He couldn't deny that somewhere along the way, his existence had come to revolve around her and now he would cheerfully consign himself to Hell for the utter depravity of his obsession with the girl if it would appease her hurt. He knew he had not a hope in Hell of having her, but he burned already and knew his suffering would only worsen when she left, so what was Hell compared to this?

His feet took him to his study and he sank down in the chair by the fire to reflect on his utter wretchedness. He had lost what would have been his only chance to touch her. She would have welcomed it, if only for the sake of her potion and even if she'd turned away from him afterwards. He'd hurt her again, but then, what was being called appalling to what he said to every day for minor infractions and even when she hadn't done anything wrong?

She remained upstairs for the rest of the day and he died a thousand little deaths imagining her upset and crying at his accidental cruelty. Eventually, he ventured back to the scene of the crime and the potion, which was by then ruined. She'd left her notes safely out of reach of spattering and he read through them and reflected on her brilliance as much as he traced the loops of her perfect penmanship with a desolate finger.

When she didn't come down for dinner, he sat down alone at the table and endured the accusing look of the house elf. He asked that her plate be left covered with a cloth and a stasis spell in the pantry for her and then retreated to the study again to stare blindly at the fire.

The day hadn't been his undoing; it had been the whole sorry apprenticeship. She'd been a model student, more than good and more than tolerant and obedient. He'd been a disgusting lecher who lost sight of proprieties and his obligations to her and was now utterly damned.

Finally, he went upstairs and had a bath quietly; anxious not to wake her in case she was asleep. God only knew how he'd face her in the morning and he contemplated sinking under the water and letting it fill his lungs, until it went too cold even for his self-loathing to bear, and he finally dragged himself out. He dried himself wearily before the fire and then walked as silently as he could to his bedroom, passing the attic ladder and following it upwards with his eyes. She might leave even without her papers signed now, though of course he would grant her his mark. She had earned it and he owed her something from this sorry mess.

His bedroom was still cold despite the established fire in the large brazier and he walked over to try and steal some warmth for his icy fingers. A sound from behind him startled him and he turned to find her in his bed, laying back against the pillows with the covers pulled up to her chest. His heart beat a tattoo so rapid he couldn't hear the crackling of the burning logs above the pounding. She met his eye defiantly.

"I can't-"he managed and darted towards the door, but she was out from under the covers and blocking his escape within a second. She was naked except for a tiny golden pendant on a fine chain and of course, her cloud of hair. He tried not to notice, but he stood within arm's reach and his itched to catch her small, fair shoulders and drag her to him.

She closed the gap between them and was so close than he could smell the milky scent of her skin and feel her breath. She tilted her head so that she could look up into his eyes and he saw a passion there that he could scarcely believe to be real. She untied the sash of the dressing gown he wore and her hands slid up his torso to the collar, which she pushed back over his shoulders in a fluid movement. She took her time easing the dressing gown to the floor and watched it fall. From there, it was natural that she would observe his hardness standing to attention. While she did this, he didn't draw a breath and when she moved in to wrap her bare arms around his bare waist and catch his erection against the smooth, warm silk of her firm stomach, he exhaled noisily and sucked in oxygen greedily while he memorized all of the sensations bombarding him.

He could feel her nipples against his chest and it sent a throb of blood into his already rock-hard cock. She seemed to feel it and rubbed against him like a cat, causing him to groan. She laughed softly against his chest as she nuzzled him and planted kisses against the hair. She arms were already firmly banded around him and she tightened her hold.

"I want you," she whispered.

Oh.

"I mean to have you."

God.

She looked up at him again. "May I?"

In response, he broke her hold, caught her up in his arms and deposited her roughly on the bed. To her delight. She smiled and slid back against the pillows and whimpered when he climbed over her and settled his weight above her. He kissed her hard with all of the pent-up longing he had suffered and groaned when she opened her mouth to give entrance to his tongue and writhed against him. Sliding a forearm under her hips, he tilted them against the grinding force of his and felt his eyes roll back into his head at the sensation.

"More!" she gasped and sank her teeth into his neck.

He released he hips and shoulders to sit back and open her thighs. He could see that she was wet in the firelight and he rubbed the tip of his thumb against her clitoris in a gentle flick, watching as her shoulders lifted off the bed and she cried out. He nudged the plump little bud with rapid strokes of his thumb and insinuated first one and then a second finger into her channel. She was so tight but so eager. God. He couldn't wait to push his way in and feel her muscles clamp around his length. He'd have to hold her down to fit it all in and he knew she would buck and try to take it all immediately.

As he was about to settle himself above her, she sat up and caught his lips in a rough, wet kiss they both struggled to dominate. Breathing hard, she pulled away to leave sucking bites on his neck and lave the marks. The feeling was incredible and he continued to push his fingers in and out of her, wringing from her moans as she applied just enough force with her teeth to the tendons of his neck to make him grunt.

"Summon a speculum and come and take me," she murmured, sucking his earlobe.

He did as she bade quickly and tossed it in the direction of his bedside table. She lay back with her knees raised and he moved between them. She wrapped her legs around him, urging his pelvis closer and he kissed her.

"Are you sure?" he asked seriously.

She frowned. "Of course."

With that, she pushed herself onto his impaling cock and moaned. He drew back and surged back in, pushing against resistant virgin muscles. He felt them give and her wince told him it had hurt. He pulled back, took the speculum and offered it to her, giving her the control. She applied it gingerly and cast a containing spell around it before settling it on the bedside table. She met his eye and smiled and dragged him back towards her. He took the position again, easing his way in and she welcomed him eagerly.

He rode her hard and she moaned, then yelled and then gasped her approval. They settled into a rapid rhythm that he would upset every now and then with an erratic thrust to surprise and unsettle her and eventually, he caught her out and pushed her into her climax; holding her tight and loving the spasming of her sheath around him. She begged and pleaded for more, harder, faster and he was powerless to refuse. He refused to come unless he could make her scream his name.

"Please!" she moaned. "Please, oh, yes!"

"Come for me again, my love," he grunted. "I need to feel it."

She dropped her head back against the pillows, expression fierce.

"Tell me you want me," she demanded.

"Of course I fucking do," he gasped. "I need you so – oh! – badly."

"Really?"

"Yes! Fuck, Hermione, oh-"she had wrestled him onto his back and sat back proudly on his hard length.

"Do you really need me?" she asked, easing up and down in slow, slow motions. The change of pace was too much and her expression was calculating as she dug her nails into his chest.

"Hermione, love, can you-"

She cut him off. "Not until you tell me what I want to hear."

The slow slide of her against his hardness was too much. "I can't think," he whined, trying to thrust upwards.

She held him down. "Try, or I'll stop," she warned. She bent down to lap at his nipples and he felt like he would die if she continued her torture.

"Beloved, please, I- oh, God!" She had swivelled her hips experimentally and evidently decided that she liked the reaction, as she did it again.

"Hermi-Oh!" she had found an angle which took him even deeper and he prayed for the strength to withstand this. "Darling, tell me what you need to hear."

"I want to know that I have your attention," she pouted, and then rose up to sink down in a fluid movement that made all the breath in his lungs rush out.

"How could you doubt it?" he gasped. In reward, she leaned forward to kiss him and he took the opportunity to roll her beneath him and quicken the pace. She didn't seem to mind ceding control to him and he made sure to show her the benefits of such an arrangement. He whispered all the things he'd wanted to tell her in her ears while he had the breath.

"You're so beautiful and I can't believe that I'm inside you. I have burned for you and been utterly obsessed with your skin and your lips and- oh, God! I've dreamed of having you here and making you come for me. I need you to come for me again, beloved. I need to feel you!"

"Do you love me?" she panted and he wanted to yell.

"Hermione, my love, I adore you." He could feel his tenuous grip on his control faltering and she was close, so close, but she wouldn't let go. "I've. Loved. You. For. So. Long," he bit out and kissed her.

"Severus!" she gasped and let out a long, loud moan. It was enough and he finally gave in and let the need overtake him.

Later, when the fired had died down and she was draped across him like a blanket, he stroked her hair aside and murmured: "I meant it. All of it."

"Did you?" she sounded exhausted but pleased.

"Of course, beloved," and he was too tired to move, so he placed a fervent kiss on her forehead.

"I love you too," she whispered.

"Good," he replied on a yawn and hitched her up so that her head was in the crook of his neck.

By the time weak, grey sunlight stole through the fibres of the curtain, he had been awake for several hours, watching her face in repose and her shoulders rise and fall as she took breath. She blinked then, eyes adjusting to the light, and when she saw him, she smiled.

"I'm going to stay here," she announced and his heart leaped,

"Forever?" he asked, knowing his happiness was riding on her answer.

"Of course," she replied haughtily and kissed him.


End file.
